


Hawke & Pavus

by championofnone



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:42:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/championofnone/pseuds/championofnone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian finds Hawke at Skyhold's tavern. They have a bit of a talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawke & Pavus

"So you’re the Champion, I take it? Varric talks about you quite frequently."

Hawke looked over at the man who approached him, easy smile on his face that tried to disguise the slight guard of his posture. The former Champion snorted. “Former, more like. Most people only remember Kirkwall with horror or disgust. If I want to do anything, I can’t mention my involvement.”

The other man hummed in agreement. “I understand. It’s hard to be from somewhere where most people don’t understand the circumstances.” He struck out his hand towards Hawke, who shook it after a moment’s hesitation. “Dorian Pavus, formerly of Tevinter, currently of the Inquisition.” 

Hawke raised an eyebrow. A Tevinter mage? He was now very grateful he had not let Fenris come with him to Skyhold. “A magister, hm? How’d you get here? Long way from home.”

"Does no one understand Tevinter? To be a magister, one must be part of the Magisterium, of which I am not." His voice became sharp at the end of his statement, and Hawke didn’t miss it. He waved to the bartender for another round of ale. "I don’t want to be involved in all the political, bloody nonsense."

"Ah, yes, Tevinter and blood magic," Hawke said, sarcasm tied into his voice as easy as oxygen to the air, "can’t have one without the other. Almost as bad as the whole slave affair."

Dorian sniffed as the ale finally slid in front of him, face neutral. “Not every slave is treated poorly, Champion. Try not to believe the tales of Tevinter excess.”

Hawke laughed, a bitter sound that quieted their corner of the tavern, and Dorian started to feel like that was something he never should have said as he drank. “Tevinter excess? I’m not worried about the excess, I’m more concerned about the ones who see it as a sport,  _Tevinter_.” 

"For example," Dorian continued, trying to wrangle the conversation away from that topic, "the ones my family had were quite comfortable."

Hawke turned, body now completely facing Dorian. For a mage, Hawke had built his physical strength to match that of his magical, and it showed. Dorian wasn’t a slight man, but he wasn’t confident that was a fight he would win. 

"Kept  _comfortable_? Kept pretty, little jewels hanging from their ears like a prized bitch? Kept illiterate, so they look upon the written word with confusion and fear, and not comprehension? Kept ignorant, so they never question the situation they’re in? So they don’t  _know_  any better?” 

Dorian bristled. “They knew enough-“ 

"Oh, enough, they knew  _enough_! Maybe they knew simple arithmetic to measure spices for your tea, for your food, how much water to pour for a bath so you could soak as they labored around you.” Hawke’s voice was ice, but in his eyes was a fire that burned as deep as it could go.

"I daresay you haven’t been a slave yourself, Champion, nor have you been to Tevinter and experienced my homeland," Dorian spat, equally as icy. "I don’t think you have the grounds to lecture me on morality when you were an accessory to Kirkwall’s demise, if not one of the catalysts." 

"I fought for freedom of my brothers and sisters who were not as fortunate as I," Hawke glared, "I fought because they were imprisoned for what they were, for the way they were born, and killed for even lesser reasons by Kirkwall’s templars. I fought because there was no other option."

He took a long drag of his ale before continuing. “No, I haven’t been a slave, but I love a former one. He ran from Tevinter, from people like you, who were all fine and dandy with slavery as long as it didn’t apply to them, who were subjects for their masters to experiment on, who couldn’t fight back. Who were seen as prizes to be pitted against each other, who couldn’t argue with any form of abuse they were subjected to, who had been under the thumbs of magisters who thought that weaving  _lyrium_  into  _skin_  was a grand idea.” 

"Only one magister was mad enough to attempt that," Dorian replied. "I am  _not_  like that madman, or any of his peers.” 

"Oh, good, I don’t have to explain who Danarius is, then. Saves me the trouble."

Dorian blinked, caught off-guard. “And just how do you know who Danarius is?”

Hawke looked him dead in the eye. “I was there when he died, as my lover ripped his heart out of his chest, and I spat at him before that when he tried to convince me to give Fenris back to him.”

A little shocked, Dorian wasn’t sure how to exactly proceed. He wasn’t winning anything in this conversation, that much was clear. He took another swig from the mug at his right as he thought. “My father wanted me to attend that…perversion they called a ceremony,” he said, voice far quieter than it had been previously. “I declined, feigning ill, but I could not think of someone wanting to do that to another being, willing or forced. I did not know Fenris, but I knew Danarius enough that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted done, no matter the cost or the amount of blood on his hands. Just because I say not all slaves are mistreated does not mean I believe all are treated fairly.”

Hawke snorted, shoving off from the stool he sat on. “Much difference it makes. You still sat compliant in your fancy house, probably eating grapes that your family’s slaves picked for you.” 

"I never said I was compliant, Champion."

Hawke slammed his hand next to Dorian’s mug, sloshing the drink a little and getting in Dorian’s personal space. He didn’t lean back at the intimidation tactic. “You did nothing. You could have made a stand, made a scene, protested, something, but you did  **nothing**. You ‘feigned sick,’ you just told me. Which means you didn’t care enough to stop it, no matter what your bluster now tells me. Unless you’re actively working against something, you’re working with it, whether your name is signed in blood or not.”

He straightened, and left the tavern. The corner was hushed whispers, now, and Dorian could swear he felt Krem glaring at him from the side Iron Bull and the Chargers had taken as their own. Dorian ordered up another round of ale, determined to at least haze the guilt out of his mind.

He could have done something, yes, but he also couldn’t with tied hands. He was still apprenticed to Alexius, still at the college, still a fledgling of a mage who would be laughed out of an event like that as if he were still a child. 

But he is Tevinter, and he is not within the borders of his homeland. This is a country where Tevinter is distrusted at best, spat upon and sworn at at the worst. He is Tevinter, he is proud, and he feels that what he didn’t do was wrong. 

 


End file.
